


Confirmed Bachelors

by ddotmac



Category: White Christmas (1954)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Secret Story. Invented By Me, Slow Burn, but like with Extra Stuff, lavender marriage, novelization kinda, yeah i know this is super weird and niche just let me have this one thing for myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-01-29 03:43:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21403633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ddotmac/pseuds/ddotmac
Summary: Bob Wallace and Phil Davis have had it bad for each other since the very beginning. But who'd confess when there's business to take care of, and a misunderstanding world in the way?
Relationships: Betty Haynes & Judy Haynes, Phil Davis/Bob Wallace
Comments: 8
Kudos: 49





	1. Forget-Me-Not

It was Christmas Eve, 1944, and Bob Wallace was getting pretty tired of being treated like a celebrity by his men.

He was honest just doing his part to help out with the war, it wasn't an ego trip of any sort. In fact, Bob found that he'd never exactly been very good with people, and other soldiers' expectations of him not matching up to reality was far from his problem. Somehow the common man can't seem to wrap his mind around the fact that the charismatic performer is a persona, and that pretending to be that someone all the time would be damn near impossible. But when the sergeant had come to him with the idea all those months ago, _really, Mr. Wallace, sir, it's just such fortunate luck that we have you here, the men could really use a morale boost since they won't be home for Christmas, sir, it doesn't have to be anything crazy, _he just caved like the sentimental bastard he'd never admit to being.

_To get you to shut up, _he'd said. _If you really think it's gonna ease their minds._

So they'd rounded up a small group of willing volunteers; there was a set to build, a score to accumulate, instruments to acquire. It wasn't easy. He ended up having to axe a few numbers because there wasn't anybody who wasn't so starstruck by him that they could perform at the same time as him.

Except for one, and Bob just felt so damned guilty that he kept forgetting his name.

He wrapped up the show with a gentle, heart-wrenching rendition of White Christmas. To keep the men somber. Remember what was at stake. Irving Berlin. It was _perfect._

That poor fresh-faced sap he couldn't remember the name of closed the lid of the music box gently so as not to make a sound. He'd been a little ditzy, that was for sure, but he was definitely eager, and nobody else was willing to get up there with him, so Bob had had little choice but to let him in. He'd gotten distracted in the middle of the number, even, forgot to crank up the box again. Perhaps he'd gotten.. distracted? Enthralled?

It was best, Bob supposed, not to speculate.

"Well, that just about wraps it up, fellas," he said, knowing he had to stall for time until the General came back. He'd hoped secretly that he would have gotten to see some of it before the end, but, ah well. "Certainly too bad General Waverly couldn't have been here for this little Yuletide clambake, 'cause.. we really had a slam-bang finish cooked up for him." A somewhat morose silence settled over the huddled soldiers. "Guess you know by now that he's being replaced by a new commanding general fresh out of the Pentagon. That's not a very nice Christmas present, is it, for a division like us that's moving up. The old man's moving toward the rear." He found the words coming easier and more honestly the longer he spoke. "That's a direction he's never taken in his entire life. Well, all I can say is, we owe a lot to General Waverly and to the way--"

"Atten_tion!"_

Bob's arms snapped to his sides and his spine shot up straight, and all the sitting soldiers bolted out of their seats and assumed the same position, like rows of orderly sardines. The daydreamer sitting on the side of the stage stumbled awkwardly to his feet and straightened up, all lanky limbs and bone. Bob only saw it in his periphery, wouldn't let himself take his eyes off that distant point on the horizon.

The General advanced to the stage, and Bob could only guess the look on his face. His heart thudded in his throat.

"Captain Wallace. Who's responsible for holding a show in this advanced area?"

Bob swallowed and prepared to be brutally honest. Hopefully that sergeant wouldn't take offense to being thrown under the bus, not that Bob could claim no blame whatsoever. "Well, sir, as a matter of fact--"

"I-it was me, sir," tall, dork, and handsome interjected, voice breaking, taking a step in front of Bob and daring to make eye contact with the General. Bob couldn't help but turn his head at that, before quickly resuming position. Of all the things to be discharged over, this had to be the dumbest. "Me, sir. It was my idea, sir. Uh, I-I mean, when you've got an entertainer, sir, the caliber of Captain Wallace, sir..." He was still looking directly at the general, apparently under the assumption that the general's full attention was an invitation to move. "I mean, sir, it's-- it's Christmas Eve, sir, well, sir, I..."

_He's been in the military how long and can't even articulate himself properly to a superior, but he can handle talking to me? What's this clown's deal?_

"I mean, if you were in New York, sir, you'd have to pay $6.60 or even $8.80 to hear a great singer like Captain Wallace, sir."

"I'm well aware of Captain Wallace's capabilities," the general interrupted. "Who are you?"

"Philip Davis, private first class, sir."

_That's _his name.

Then the general did the last thing Bob expected by gently saying, "At ease, Davis."

"Yes sir!" Phil responded cheerily, returning his arms stiffly to his sides with a grin.

The general frowned. "I said at ease."

Phil took a few steps back, awkward under scrutiny, not sure where to put his arms anymore. He mumbled his thanks as the general clambered up the steps to address the audience. "This division is now under the command of General Harold G. Carlton," he said, with the practiced ease and discipline of someone who'd spent hours telling these men everything he had to say. "I don't want you to forget it - not that he'll let you. He's tough, just what this sloppy outfit needs. He'll have you standing inspection night and day. You might even learn how to march. And if you don't give him everything you've got, I may back and... fight for the enemy." Smiles tugged at a few lips, including the general's. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas," they all responded.

The general's eyes got somewhat misty, not that he ever would have admitted it. "Well, I guess all I can say is how much I... what a fine outfit... how am I going..." He drifted off and faced Bob, who finally dared to make eye contact with him. He chose to say nothing about the gleam in his eye, the bittersweet twinkle that betrayed his gruff expression. "Don't just stand there. How do I get off?"

Bob grinned. "Just happen to have a slam-bang finish, sir."

"Yes, sir!" Phil chirped, returning to his position near the front of the stage.

That was mere minutes before all hell broke loose.

Bob shouted orders, not that anyone could hear them over the sound of bombs and walls collapsing. The waving of his arms seemed to convey the general idea of what he wanted, though, and he desperately directed the flow of men to the best of his ability. It wasn't until a tall body pressed itself against his and lanky arms wrapped themselves around his waist that he'd noticed the wall over him had begun to fall, and it all happened so quickly that he couldn't even scream.

Phil threw him under the tailgate of the nearest jeep and hunkered his body over Bob's, wincing against the collapsing rubble. When the worst of it was over, he collapsed on the ground Bob, the arm that had been resting closest to the surface sticky with dust and blood.

"You alright, Davis?" Bob called out, blinking away the sand.

Phil groaned. "I'm alright, sir, it's just my arm."

Bob would have balked if it wasn't for the adrenaline keeping him grounded. He whipped a handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around Phil's wounded arm tenderly, watching carefully how he hissed through his teeth at the pressure. "It looks bad," he said worriedly.

"It's nothing but a scratch," Phil insisted, straightening his helmet. He was trying to appear together. Bob had seen this one a million times before.

He narrowed his eyes. "We've got to get you to a doctor, pronto."

"Oh, no, sir, I could never come before the conflict, sir, I'm sure there's more serious injuries that need to be addressed first, sir--"

"Nonsense. You're all my men, and I'll make sure everyone is attended to," he interjected, crawling out from under the jeep. He extended his hand and Phil gingerly took it, wobbling uncertainly to his feet. "Can you keep your arm like that until we find a medic?" Phil nodded. "Alright. I'll come with you, and once you're taken care of, I'll come back for others. Does that work for you?" Phil nodded again, clearly focused on breathing and taking steps.

They made it to the tent safely, and the medics assured him that the chances of any serious consequences were pretty slim. But one question kept nagging at him.

_Why was he so insistent on defending me to the general?_


	2. Sucker

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy smokes, this got a lot of attention! I expected to get, at the very most, five hits, and coming back to this and all of your nice comments made me feel so special! I intended to write a chapter of this every day up until Christmas, but obviously I got a little busy with life, so here's a new year's treat from me to you. :D

The most annoying thing about all of this was how good Davis's song was.

The guilt that nagged at him when he'd flashed the paper in front of his face and given those adorable puppy dog eyes was bad enough, but he couldn't help being, dare he say it, _impressed _by the tune that this lanky little nobody had composed supposedly all by himself. He tried not to flatter himself with the idea that he had brought the sheet music along just hoping that he would be able to show it to him, but the song was fantastic. The business-minded part of him said he should consider himself very, very lucky that he managed to discover such a wonderful nugget of talent, but the performing part of him was feeling an emotion that he would very hesitantly describe as joy.

Maybe it was time to pump some of the life back into his career and start, oh, perhaps, enjoying it again. What a thought.

"Yes, folks, I'm back!" he announced proudly, to rancorous applause. "And I'm very excited to present my new friend here, the 151st division's very own Phil Davis!"

He trotted onto the stage and waved, beaming from ear to ear. He thought it was _fantastic, _the influence that Bob had over a crowd. They had no idea who he was, no reason to believe that he was talented, other than that they had Bob Wallace's word and that was all that they needed.

Bob would never get used to just how _earnest _Phil was. He never did anything insincerely. He said exactly what he meant and always spoke his mind. He seemed almost incapable of not doing so; as a five-year old, completely without a filter. Even when Phil was chastising a crowd or complaining inappropriately to the stagehands or interjecting somewhat snide comments about a song, it always endeared Bob. It was so innocent, so youthful. The war hadn't destroyed him, he wouldn't let it, and it warmed his heart to see.

It seemed to warm everybody else's hearts, too, because they grew on Davis like weeds. There was never any need for extra advertising, as he'd feared, because his business only boomed after the partnership. It was fantastic. It was every performer's dream. A like-minded partner, so in sync with you that you're always on the same page, always wanting to progress in the same direction.

"Our own radio show?" Phil said under his breath, a giddy tone accompanying it.

Bob had already opened his mouth, a thousand concerns on his tongue. "Oh, that's wonderful!" Phil went on, clasping his hands together and smiling cheekily at Bob. "Isn't that just everything? Our very own radio show!"

"Come on, think of all the troubles that'll come with it," Bob lamented. "There'll be a staff to hire and rent to pay and--"

"What does it matter?" Phil interrupted, spinning fantastically as though he could conjure up the idea for Bob to see and understand through his motions. "Isn't this everything we've ever dreamed of?"

He watched and took notice how Phil's left arm extended a little further from his body. His right one still tucked close to his torso even as he danced about.

Bob pursed his lips and turned to their manager. "Alright, let's do it."

"Oh, really??" Phil was at his side in seconds, an arm around his shoulder - his left arm - "Oh, it's wonderful, Bobby, I can see it now-- the Wallace and Davis Show!"

_Wallace and Davis to Produce?_

"Well, would you look at that!" Phil chirped.

Bob whipped around to look at him. His immediate response to this was not an excited one, and he was a bit confused as to why his partner's was. "What, do you think we should?"

"Well, sure!"

He shook his head, already folding up the newspaper and handing it back to the stage manager. "No, it's too much, no, no, no, no."

Phil's eyes went wide and he reached for it back. "What? Bob--"

"It's just too much, we simply can't afford it. We don't have the staff--"

"Well, don't you want to try? Don't you think it'll be fun?"

"Fun? Have you lost your mind? We have money to worry about, our jobs are on the line..."

The words in his mouth dried up as Phil looked directly in his eyes and gave his right arm a few soft rubs.

And of course, it turned out to be incredibly lucrative, with the show still in production two years later, but Bob still held to the fact that it was a stupid idea with no guarantee of success.

"Phil!"

He turned around to see Rita, his most favorite member of the cast, and smiled warmly. "Hello, honey!"

"Can I see you for a minute? You know Doris," she said, gesturing to the woman to their right, who was leaned over doing her makeup. Phil gave her a once-over, failing somewhat to hold back the sneer that was threatening to envelop his face. He only wanted the very best for his best friend, but, well, Bob had rejected all of the material he'd been shown so far and they were starting to reach the dregs. All he wanted was for him to be happy. Anything was a start. Doris would have to do.

"Bob? Bob!"

He was busy deliberating. Phil had to practically wave to get his attention. "Bob, can I see you for a minute? You know Doris," he repeated, since there was pretty much no better way to introduce her. "Friend of Rita's," he added, hoping that helped.

"Another one, huh?" he murmured, before giving her his plastered-on stage grin. "How you doin'?"

"Mutual, I'm sure," she responded, while Rita and Phil smiled wanly, wishing that anything normal would have happened instead.

Bob turned to Phil, who of course had to save this. "Uh, well, I just thought he could all four of us go out and get a bite to eat, have a few laughs or something?"

"Oh, I can't make it, I'm afraid you can't either," Bob replied coolly, and some secret part of Phil that he hated admitting to existing was very satisfied knowing he wasn't going to go on a date with this floozy. "We have some business to take care of."

"Business?" Phil blinked. "What kind of business?"

"We have to go look at an ad."

He balked. "Look at an ad?"

Bob tipped his hat. "Some other time."

He headed to their dressing room and Phil followed, having to nearly run to keep up in spite of the terribly long legs that Bob always gave him a hard time about.

"Wallace, I think it's time you and I have a little talk." He tossed his cane. Received the hat. Put both hats away.

"Yeah, it's a good idea, buster, and if you don't mind, I'll lead off."

"Now, wait a minute--"

"You wait a minute!" Bob was scowling at him, a fairly regular expression of his, but he wasn't thrilled about being the cause of it. "You know something? For about three months now, you've been clumsily trying to entangle me with some female."

They took off their jackets in sync and hung them up. "All I'm trying to do is--"

"Fat ones, thin ones, tall ones, doesn't make any difference, as long as they're wearing skirts, a little mascara, and still breathing, you run 'em at me."

"Well, believe me, it's for your own good," Phil replied, even as he hated the words.

Bob looked back over his shoulder, in mock surprise. "For my own good?"

"Yeah, I mean, let's face it, Bob, you're a lonely, miserable man." He headed to the closet with their jackets.

_"What?"_

"And you're unhappy, too. And when _you're_ unhappy, _I'm_ unhappy." Caught Bob's tie. Folded it up. "After all, I feel a strong sense of responsibility to you, Bob. Ever since the day I--"

"Oh, no, not again with that life-saving bit," Bob interrupted, slowly smiling. There was no mirth to it. Simply a sentiment he was fed up with hearing, one that had almost become a joke.

Phil rolled his eyes and patted him on the shoulder. "Well, if you'd rather forget it.."

"How can I? You won't let me!" He tossed Phil his shoes, who caught them expertly. "Ever since you saved my life, you've decided you have the right to run it! You've utzed me along every step of the way: you've hammered, drove, pushed, shoved... and if _that _wasn't enough, you look at me with those great big cow eyes of yours, point at that phony arm, and I melt and go along."

"Well, I don't expect any gratitude--"

"Well, you're going to get it. You did great, and I'm grateful." He shucked off his dress shirt and slammed it into the laundry basket. "So thank you. Thank you, Phil Davis, from the bottom of my heart. Now will you let the rest of my life alone?"

Phil squared his jaw. It was very much like Bob to have these fits like this when he was planning something that wasn't working out exactly perfect. "No, I won't."

"Well, why not?!"

"Because you're a miserable, lonely, unhappy man!"

Bob scoffed. "Oh, you're wacky. I'm a very happy man."

"Well, then you're happy for the wrong reasons, and that's the same as being lonely and miserable, except it's_ worse."_

"You know something? You're off your nut about a mile and a half," Bob snapped back, starting to get frustrated. Usually their little spats were somewhat playful, but not this one. "I've got everything in life I want!"

Phil's face got a little heated. "Oh, sure, I'm off my nut a mile and a half, you've got everything you want, except the most important thing!"

"What's that?"

"A _girl."_

Bob's face sank. His chest went tight. He glanced at the floor, all of his fight disappearing. "I'll get around to that one of these days," he mumbled, crossing the room so Phil couldn't see his expression.

"My dear partner. When what's left of you gets around to what's left to be gotten, what's left to be gotten won't be worth getting, whatever it is you've got left."

He wanted to smile. Phil could always do that to him. "Once I figure out what that means, I'll come up with a crushing reply. What's all this about, anyway?"

"Nothing, nothing, only your happiness," Phil said, mock shrugging.

"My happiness?"

"Yeah!"

Bob drank that in. "You know, when you get an idea that's for my happiness solely, there's always lurking behind somewhere a little angle for you. So what is it?"

"You really wanna know?"

"Yes, I really wanna know."

They were back to playing. The air was lighter. It felt better.

"Ever since the day we became producers, you're a changed man. You've gone absolutely berserk with work." He kept their eyes staunchly locked to prevent his own gaze from drifting as Bob slipped on a new outfit over his undershirt. "And the strange thing is, you _like _it. You _like _being Rogers and Hammerstein."

"Well, it was your idea!"

"Well, sure it was my idea, but I didn't think I was gonna create a Frankenstein! And from that day on, I haven't had one minute I could call my own!"

Bob was hunched over putting on a pair of pants, their eyes still locked. _Don't look away. Don't look away... _"What do you want me to do about it??" Bob cried.

"I want you to get married," Phil said as seriously as he could. "I want you to have nine children. And if you only spend five minutes a day with each kid, that's forty-five minutes, and I'd at least have time to go out and get a massage or something!"

Bob rolled his eyes and sat down. "You don't expect me to get serious with the characters you and Rita have been throwing me."

"Well, there've been some real nice girls, too!"

"Oh, yeah, like that nuclear scientist we just met out in the hall."

Phil's jaw dropped and he paused. "Alright, they didn't go to college. They didn't go to Smith."

"_Go _to Smith?" Bob laughed. "She couldn't even spell it!"

"Oh, that's very funny. Ho, ho, ho! The crooner is now becoming the comic," Phil said, his voice nearing angry now. It made Bob anxious. He took a deep breath.

"Phil, let me tell you something," he said, and very seriously dreamed of a world for only a brief moment where he could finish this sentence with the truth. But there was no such future. "There's a lot of sense in what you say, and I have to admit it, but the kind of girls you and I meet in this business, they're-- they're young, they're ambitious, they're full of their own careers, they're not interested in getting married, settling down, raising a family." And he was right. But that wasn't the reason, and he wanted more than anything in the world to just let the floodgates loose, tell him everything that would really make him happy--

"That's funny, Bob, I never heard you open up like that before."

Bob tamped down on the idea. He'd only make himself sadder to entertain it. "Someday the right girl will come along. And if she'll have me, we'll settle down, start having those nine kids for you. Forty-five minutes gonna be enough?"

Phil smiled again, sincerely, and Bob thought he could live forever on that smile alone. He was so... so earnest. If he didn't truly think this was the best thing for Bob, he wouldn't be doing it. It's a shame he'd never know.

"If I need any more, I'll tell you," Phil said happily, patting him on the shoulder, and it was clear the fight was done.

As they were leaving for Novello's that evening, Rita stopped him on his way out the door. "Phil," she said, her eyes glittering. "Why don't you just tell him?"

Phil's stomach dropped. He gripped Rita's hands, looking into her eyes and shaking his head. "You know I can't. He'd never understand."

"Well, if he doesn't understand, then what kind of a best friend is he?" she said, her eyebrows furrowed in determination.

"One I'd like to keep." Phil gave her hands a squeeze and kissed her forehead gently. "You know it isn't that simple."


End file.
